


Northern Star

by Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Life Partners, Minor Original Character(s), Queerplatonic Relationships, Timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:49:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28892406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone/pseuds/Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone
Summary: The world has changed, and there's no going back. Zolf just needs to learn how to move forwards instead, and who's worth taking with him.Or,Zolf finds himself, Wilde finds Zolf, and they figure out the rest together.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, in a qpr way
Comments: 39
Kudos: 90





	Northern Star

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to the song Northern Star by Dom Fera. Thanks Ben Meredith for QPR Zoscar, they mean the world to me.

Another dead end, another bung lead, and Zolf is tired. He’s so, so tired. He feels like he’s been running in circles for months, now. The Harlequins have been good to him; the closure, the legs, the sense of purpose. But he’s reached his limit with them now. He misses Sasha, and he misses Hamid. It's hard, sometimes, to think that he made the right decision with leaving them. Nights like these, when the tavern is filled with strange faces, and he’s pulled up short yet again, and the grog is unfamiliar and the night outside is cold, these nights it’s easy to put on his rose-tinted glasses and think of who he’s left behind. 

The memory of Sasha burns brightest. He’d promised he’d look after her. She was unwell, she was dying, and he could’ve helped but instead he left her. Zolf takes another swig of his beer. It tastes overly of yeast and spills over the rim when he places it back on the battered table. Sasha’s fine. She’s got to be. He can’t afford to think like this, not if he wants to keep moving forwards. Zolf closes his eyes, breathing steadily through his nose. He can feel his drink in his palm, warming unpleasantly in the crowded room. Conversations drift over him in languages he can’t understand and he floats in and out of himself for a while, trying to stay present, trying not to think too loudly. 

“Zolf Smith,” a voice says, prompting him to open his eyes. “Thought that was you.” 

The man that stands before him is human, tall and familiar. He looks more rugged than when Zolf saw him last, and friendlier too. He’s letting his hair grow out, and Zolf has to admit that it suits him. 

“Commander Barnes,” Zolf greets, motioning to the empty chair at his table. 

“Just Barnes now,” Barnes says as he sinks down opposite Zolf. “Good to see ya.” 

“And you. What brings you to Kernavė?”

Barnes takes a moment before speaking, his eyes flicking to something or someone behind Zolf’s head. Zolf doesn’t turn around to see, just waits for Barnes to continue. 

“The weather,” he says eventually. His accent is thicker than Zolf remembers it being. It’s comforting, in a way. A little piece of familiarity in an otherwise foreign world. “You?” 

“Much the same,” Zolf offers. He doesn’t want to go into too much detail- not here, not in a crowded room, not with someone he hasn’t seen since his court martial. 

“And who are you working with?” Barnes says, sticking to a script Zolf’s now starting to see. This time Zolf does turn around, quickly scanning the room for Barnes’s companion. He doesn’t know who he’s looking for, but no one sticks out more than anyone else. 

“Do you have a counter-offer?” Zolf asks, meeting Barnes’s gaze. 

“I just might,” Barnes says, his eyes flitting behind Zolf again, before returning. He stands up and nods, motioning for Zolf to follow him. Zolf does so, draining the remainder of his beer before trudging after him. 

It takes Zolf a fraction longer than he’d like to admit, to place Wilde. He’s so different from how he was in Paris, a new man to the one they left behind to climb aboard Earhart’s ship. His hair is short, his clothes less audacious, and he just seems heavier than he had. He sits, tucked into a corner, with two more men, neither of whom Zolf recognises. One is a weedy little white man, short greyish hair and a scruffy moustache. The other has long black hair tied back, skin marginally lighter than Barnes’s. They’re both human. All four of them are human. Zolf straightens his spine and stands taller. 

“Wilde,” he says, giving him a curt nod. 

“Mr Smith,” Wilde says. “How lovely of you to join us.” 

“What do you want?” Zolf asks, leaning his weight on his glaive. Wilde’s eyes flick across to it, taking in the absence of his trident. 

“Gentlemen,” he says to his companions. “Would you allow us some privacy?” 

The men get up and go without a word, leaving Zolf and Wilde alone together. Zolf scowls. Wilde’s attitude is putting him on edge. He suddenly misses his luke-warm beverage. 

“What do you want?” Zolf repeats, but he allows himself to sit down. He knows this might take a while. 

“Let me get you something to drink,” Wilde says, waving his hand in the air before Zolf can demand they skip past pleasantries. Zolf says nothing, opting instead to stare Wilde down. 

Wilde leans back slightly, his elbow hanging down the back of his chair, his hand tucked into his side. He looks Zolf up and down, tilting his head slightly at Zolf’s legs. He’s got his trousers tucked into his boots, he knows Wilde can’t see anything, but his gaze makes Zolf’s neck hairs prickle and he clears his throat loudly, calling Wilde’s attention back to his face. 

“I hear the Harlequins have picked you up,” Wilde says, once their new drinks have been deposited to their table. Zolf makes no move to pick his up, just raises his chin defiantly. 

“Better than the Meritocrats,” he says. Wilde nods, a bitter smile crossing his face, 

“Indeed,” he agrees. “But have you considered going rogue?” 

That gets Zolf’s attention. Rogue? The Rangers going rogue? Zolf can’t picture Hamid defying the Meritocrats, but it certainly means at least Bertie would be out of it. Sasha wouldn’t have an issue with it, at least. 

“Is that what you’ve done? Where are they?” Zolf looks up to the ceiling beams, scanning the shadows for Sasha’s elusive silhouette. It’s futile, he knows. He won’t spot her if she doesn’t want him to. He finds nothing. 

Wilde’s face drops, and he looks away for a moment. He brings his wineglass to his mouth, swirling it before taking a sip. It’s a deep red that stains his lips unevenly, and Zolf wonders for a moment why he doesn’t prestidigitate himself clean, before remembering he couldn’t care less. 

“What happened?” Zolf demands. “Where did you send them?” 

Wilde takes his bloody sweet time before speaking. His voice wavers slightly, but he at least meets Zolf’s gaze. 

“They went to Rome to save some kidnapped family,” he says. “They didn’t come out.” 

The thing is, Zolf knew. He didn’t exactly know what had happened, but he’d heard the whispers, he’d heard warped news through the grapevine. He knew something bad had happened since he left and he knew no one wanted to tell him. He just didn’t let himself think of it. 

“Sasha,” he says, voice raw and mouth dry. “She’s not well.” 

Wilde gives him a fleeting smile. “She’s okay. Was okay. She met a bloody Meritocrat. She got better.” 

“And then she went to Rome,” Zolf adds. 

“And then she went to Rome,” Wilde echoes, eyes dropping again. 

Zolf can see that Wilde blames himself. It’s written in the tension in his shoulders, the creases in his forehead. 

_ Good _ , Zolf thinks.  _ You were their handler. You shouldn’t have let them go.  _ He says nothing, just picks up his new drink. 

“So you cut your hair,” Zolf says well after the silence falls uncomfortable. Wilde looks back up, his lip twitching at the comment. 

“It’s a long story,” he says, scratching at the back of his head. His hair has been cropped short, Similar to how Barnes used to keep his. It doesn't suit him, just makes him look older and more drained.

“Well,” Zolf says, mind made up. “You’ll have to catch me up before our next mission.” 

“You’ll join me, then?” Wilde asks, not bothering to hide his surprise. “Just like that?” 

Zolf thinks of Sasha, her hope, her spirit. He thinks of Hamid and his naive optimism. He thinks of the Wilde he used to know, artistically tousled hair and illusions sparkling around him. He thinks of Feryn and the Harlequins, of Poseidon and weather patterns. He thinks of dead ends and loose threads, and the lack of direction that weighs him down. He needs something new to hold onto. He needs another reason to hope. 

“Just like that,” he says, holding his hand out. Wilde takes it, squeezes it, pumps it twice before letting go. 

“Good to have you back,” he says. Zolf takes another drink. 

  
  
Wilde’s staying at the other inn in the town, the one down the street that Zolf isn’t staying in. It’s easy enough for Zolf to repack his gear and follow him back. Wilde introduces him properly to his lot: James Barnes, of course; Howard Carter, thief; and Samuel Montague, another bard. 

“Why d’you need another bard?” Zolf asks once they’re alone again. He’s seen Wilde in action, he knows he’s top of the lot. Wilde’s spine stiffens and he looks uncomfortable, but he tells Zolf with a steady voice. 

“I was unwell, back in Damascus,” he says. “We were working there, uncovering work on the simulacrum. Grizzop found me face down in a puddle of blood. They figure I’ve been cursed, and that the only way to stop me from dying is this.” 

Wilde takes a seat on the bed and gentle rolls up his left trouser leg. His ankle in pale and skinny, with fine hairs and a few freckles. Around it hangs thick metal cuffs. Anti-magic cuffs, Zolf recognises. He frowns. 

“I’m hardly a bard now, Zolf,” Wilde says, tone light for the context. “Just another man.” 

“Hmm,” Zolf says. Then, “What else?” 

Wilde gets back up, makes his way over to his dresser and pours them each another drink. 

“What have you missed? Oh, Mr Smith, there’s a whole story in there.” 

And he starts to talk. 

* * *

It’s easier to slip into step with Wilde than Zolf expected. He thought they’d be at each other’s throats constantly, under each other’s skin, but since he resolved his issues with Poseidon, Zolf realises he finds it easier to get along with people. Wilde’s still annoying, of course, but he’s less in-your-face about it, and Zolf doesn’t have the energy to rise to the bait each time. There’s a rhythm he hadn’t realised they had, and it’s easier to find meaning when he’s collaborating like this. 

“I don’t know what it is,” Wilde says over dinner one night. It’s the five of them, as it so often is, and Zolf’s taken to cooking most nights. He likes it, the tranquility of chopping and mixing and heating and creating. He likes to see his team healthy under his own doing. It feels nice to be needed again. 

“I don’t know how, but it’s linked. The simulacrum, the weather, Bolla Smok. Something big is coming, and I have no clue what it is or how to prepare.” 

“There’s always something coming,” Carter says unhelpfully. Zolf looks to Barnes and is met with an eye roll. 

“Something  _ big _ ,” Wilde reiterates. He’s distracted, his attention not at all on his dinner, but at least he’s joined them. At least he’s occasionally taking bites. Zolf nods to himself, keeping an eye on him. He won’t be performing to his best abilities if he’s not eating enough. 

* * *

They’ve worked their way up to the coast again, following another dead lead. It comes and goes in cycles, and Zolf’s started to tune in to how Wilde inflates and deflates, only to inflate again with each turn in their investigation. It’s infuriating, at times but it beats whatever Zolf was doing before this. He misses the Rangers, but, and despite their differences, he’s enjoying working alongside Wilde again. 

The beaches are sandy here. Zolf prefers wild open oceans and rocks and cliffs, but he’ll take what he can get. Sand and the Baltic Sea- it could be worse. 

Still, though. No rocks to skip. It takes him a good half hour to scope the beach and find a handful of semi-decent stones. Wilde joins him at some point, taking a seat in the sand and just watching as Zolf potters around. Wilde’s back to researching, which means a lot more down time for Zolf. He’ll help where he can, but right now Wilde needs to figure his head out before anyone else can step in. Zolf’s surprised to see him outside and away from his office. 

“You never told me what happened with Poseidon,” he says when Zolf makes his way back over. 

“We broke up,” Zolf says drily. Wilde hums, leaning back on his elbows and crossing one ankle over the other, his legs straight out in front of him. Zolf settles down next to him, depositing his rocks in a small pile between his legs. He fiddles with them as he talks, stacking them and making shapes. It’s nice to focus on something that won’t look back. 

“After Paris, after Mr Ceiling and shutting down the Ordinateurs, I struggled with Poseidon. How could I worship a God who refused to guide me? Did I even want him to guide me? Could I trust his judgement? I could feel myself slipping, but I thought I could hold on. We had things that needed to be done. We were a team.” Zolf sighs, looking up from his rocks and out over the sea. He thinks there will always be an undercurrent of longing, when it comes to the water. He wishes he could go back to the early days of being a cleric, when the world was bright and new and he had something to hold onto. When things were simpler.

“And then Earhart told me my family was involved in an anti-meritocratic agency, and Bertie threw Harrison Campbell off her ship, and I lost control. I wanted to kill him, Wilde. I really wanted to be the reason he died.” 

Wilde says nothing at first, his right foot tracing lazy circles from atop his left as he watches the waves roll in. 

“I really question my own taste in men, sometimes,” he says after a moment. Zolf laughs at that, shaking his head slightly. 

“I’m glad I didn’t kill him myself. But. I _am_ glad he’s dead.” 

“And you know what,” Wilde stage-whispers. There’s no one else around, but Zolf finds himself leaning in. “He wasn't even a good lay.” 

Zolf laughs properly at that, a deep vibration from within his belly. It feels good, to talk it over. Air this out with someone. “I can imagine. He was too selfish to be anything but.” 

“Incredibly different from you, I’d say,” Wilde continues, and this time Zolf can feel his gaze on his face. He resolutely does not blush.

“Don’t go there, Wilde,” he warns, eyes fixed straight ahead. 

“Alright, alright,” Wilde says, waving his hands in a surrender motion. “Though if you do change your mind…” And he trails off, still turned to Zolf, still watching for a reaction. 

“Ain’t gonna happen,” Zolf assures him, giving him nothing more. 

Wilde takes a moment, then, “Ah. Forgive me, I thought you weren’t… straight.” 

Zolf shakes his head, then immediately feels betrayed by himself. This is none of Wilde’s goddamn business. But he still wants to talk. 

“It’s not that. I’m just. I don’t know. Not really a sex person?” He tries. He wants to turn, to see what Wilde’s face will tell him, but he doesn’t want to give in so he stays where he is and keeps watching the waves break in on themselves. 

“I’m not really a love person, if I do say so myself,” Wilde offers, a heartbeat before a missed opportunity. “Different sides of the same coin.” 

Zolf smiles and finally, finally allows himself to face Wilde. He's calmer these days, less filled with that enraging arrogance. It’s nice, Zolf thinks, to have a friend on the same level as him. He doesn’t have to manage Wilde, and Wilde rarely actually manages Zolf.

Different sides of a coin. He likes that. Maybe he’ll hold onto it. 

“So,” Wilde says once the moment has settled. “If not Poseiden, then who?” 

“It’s different, now. I don’t really know. I get my energy from somewhere, but it doesn’t feel external the way it used to. It almost comes from within.” 

Wilde says nothing to that, just looks thoughtfully out across the landscape. He looks like a painting, lounging back in the pale sand, the wind fluttering his shirt, the muted colours of a cold beach enhancing the vibrancy of his clothes. 

“So you’re a cleric of yourself, then? Your own Northern Star? The church of Zolf Smith. Population: one.” 

Zolf says nothing, just watches the rhythm of the waves. 

“A cleric of… not hope, exactly, but of moving forwards. I think I get my strength from carrying on, even when it’s hard.” 

“Zolf Smith: Cleric of Hope. I like that one,” Wilde agrees, despite Zolf explicitly saying that’s not what he is. 

“Who cares what it is. It’s keeping me going and giving me the strength to continue. I think, for now, that’s enough.” 

* * *

The disease takes them all by surprise. News of it spreads with the disease itself, most unaffected areas not knowing anything about it. Maybe if they hadn’t taken down Mr Ceiling then they could get the word out, but as it goes there’s not much they can do. 

“It’s a nasty thing,” Wilde says. “It’s like- mind control. People turn on their friends and families. No one knows how it transmits, only that after a week the infected are covered in blue veins.”

Zolf doesn’t like it. He feels hunted, pursued by the virus. Sleeping gets harder, to the point where it’s easier if he skips it altogether and cures his fatigue when it hits. But he can’t keep going forever, no amount of curing fatigue can substitute legitimate rest. 

Wilde isn’t helping, his manic energy bouncing through whichever lodge or inn they stay at. 

“I’ve got it!” Wilde announces one night, barging into Zolf’s room in the wee hours. He wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight, but Wilde had no way of knowing that.

“Sod off, Wilde,” Zolf snaps, pushing his book aside and crossing his arms. The light from his doorway casts his room back in colour, but Wilde’s face is still in shadow. Zolf can’t see the blush in colour, but he knows he's made Wilde uncomfortable in his realisation of how late it really is. Good. 

“Oh! I, uh, I'll,” Wilde stammers, still awkwardly hovering in the doorway. 

“Can it wait til the morning?” Zolf asks, not giving up his act of being frustrated. 

“No, that’s why I came now,” Wilde explains, but changes his tone at Zolf’s expression. “Wait, yes, I guess it can. We’re not under attack or anything, it’s just. Right. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” He starts to back out again, the room falling dark again. Zolf sighs, annoyed with Wilde but annoyed with himself for what he’s about to do. 

“Wait,” he calls softly. “What is it, Wilde?’

Wilde bursts back in again, grin evident on his face. Zolf hasn’t seen him like this before.

“We need to investigate the Shoin institute,” he tells Zolf. “Turn on your lamp, I can’t see.” 

Zolf does as he’s told, lighting his mining lantern that he keeps on his nightstand. “Shoin?” 

“Yoshida Shoin, alchemist in Okinoshima, Japan. He’s received simulacra shipments from Damascus and I think he could play an integral part in all of this. The weather. You know.” 

Zolf does know. Zolf wants to know more. 

“Alright,” he says. “Keep going.” 

And Wilde does. They sit up in Zolf’s bed all night, like children having a sleepover, as Wilde lays their plans out.

They’re going to Japan. 

* * *

Carter’s good. Zolf’s reluctant to admit it, but it’s the truth. He’s no Sasha, and even the comparison feels like selling her short, but he is capable and they’re a lot better off with him than they’d be without him. 

“I didn’t know her well,” Carter says to Zolf one evening over a bottle of expensive whiskey. Zolf’s willing to bet his left arm that Carter didn’t pay a cent for it. “But she’s not exactly the kind of woman you forget.” 

“She was a good kid,” Zolf agrees, watching the flicker of candlelight through the amber liquid. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Carter says. Barnes reaches over without saying a word, refilling his and Montague’s glasses. 

“You should’ve seen her with Grizzop,” Wilde says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He’s like this a lot, recently. Zolf’s starting to think it maybe isn’t so uncharacteristic after all. “His drive, her precision. They were unstoppable.” Until they weren’t, of course. Wilde’s head slumps forwards, his growing bangs falling to obscure his eyes. Zolf finds his knee under the table, squeezes it lightly. Wilde’s hand covers his own, briefly, a gentle pat of thanks. 

“To Sasha,” Montague says, raising his glass. “To Hamid, and Grizzop, and Azu.” 

“To the London and Other-London Outstanding Mercenary Group,” Wilde says. “At least they didn’t go out alone.” 

Some days, that has to be enough. It’s been a year now, Wilde tells him. A year seems like too far to stretch their hope, even Zolf knows that. So tonight they sit, and they drink, and they reminisce. 

Zolf lays in his bed, warm and slightly buzzed, drowsy from tears shed away from prying eyes, when someone knocks at his door. Three tentative raps. Wilde. 

“Aye, Wilde,” Zolf says, wiping at his eyes but knowing it’ll be too dark for Wilde to make them out, anyway. 

“Sorry,” Wilde says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. The room falls back into darkness, and Zolf sees the lanky man stumble over to where Zolf’s pushed himself up in bed. The combination of the darkness and the alcohol leaves Wilde a clumsy mess, and Zolf laughs despite himself. 

“Yes, yes, we can’t all have dark vision,” Wilde mutters under his breath, finally finding Zolf’s bed under his outstretched hands. He slumps down with a heavy sigh and makes to take off his boots. 

“What’s going on?” Zolf asks. He shuffles over slightly, allowing Wilde to slide into place next to him. 

“I can’t stop thinking,” Wilde says after a moment. He scrubs his hand over his face and turns to Zolf, despite the dark. “I lead them to their deaths.” 

“They knew the risks,” Zolf says, but he knows how this goes. He thinks of Feryn, he thinks of accidents and miscalculations, he thinks of shipwrecks and leading people into danger. At least Sasha and Hamid signed up for something. Wilde lets out a deep breath, shrugging down and leaning his head on Zolf’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he says. They sit like that, the room filling with their matched breathing until his neck starts to ache. He could send Wilde off to his own room, but the company is nice. He shrugs slightly, his neck clicking with the movement, and Wilde slips off. He’s asleep, Zolf realises, and he’s partially relieved that he doesn't have to address this. Not yet, at least. Not now. Instead, he pulls his quilt up and shuffles over a little bit more before closing his eyes and falling asleep. 

  
  


Zolf wakes up warm, his head full and heavy.  _ Sasha _ , he thinks.  _ Hamid _ . He rolls over, facing the wall of Wilde front on. He’s young again when he sleeps, eyelids flickering as he dreams. Zolf gets up quietly, clipping his legs back on, and heads out to make breakfast for all of them.   
  


* * *

Wilde sits on his side of the bars to the cell, holding up a beaten paperback in each hand. One’s a Campbell, one isn’t. 

“Please,” Carter whines. “Read us the Fowler! I am so sick of Campbells by now.” 

“Don’t make it our problem that you can’t appreciate fine literature and storytelling like the rest of us,” Zolf says, flicking the hair tie from his beard at him. It clips him on the ear and falls to the ground, looping into an infinity symbol. 

“I vote Campbell,” Barnes says, earning himself a betrayed look from Carter. 

“I vote you let us out,” Carter grumbles, picking up Zolf’s tie and flicking it back. “Five days and no blue veins. We’re clear, surely!” 

Zolf agrees, but he sees the conflicted look on Wilde’s face and stays quiet. Montague’s gaze flicks between them all before settling on Wilde. 

“At least let Zolf out,” he says. “Then we can have a proper meal.” 

“If you’re trying to butter me up into letting you out, you’re not doing your cause any favours,” Wilde chides, but Zolf knows that look, knows Montague has won him over. 

“Butter,” Carter says. “Just think of Zolf’s bread rolls, fresh out of the oven. Butter melting into them, still warm. A slice of cheese.” He trails off, a dazed smile on his face. 

“I don’t know about you lot but I’d like a stroganoff," Zolf says. It’s Wilde’s favourite. He’s looking skinnier than usual- or maybe Zolf’s projecting. Either way, a stroganoff sounds good to him. 

“Fine! Fine. You lot are awful. What’s one or two more days, huh?” And with a small smile he can’t quite hide, Wilde lets them out. 

Zolf’s going to make them dinner. He will, but first he needs a moment to himself in his room. It’s tidy, how he keeps it. He heads over to his dresser and pulls out fresh clothes. Trousers, shirt, a woven sweater. Comfort clothes, the ones he always chooses when he’s let out of quarantine. 

The sound of muffled voices seep through the thin walls. Wilde and Montague in Wilde’s room. It’s not quite routine, but it’s certainly far from uncommon for the two of them to sleep together fresh out of quarantine. With the global situation, Zolf knows Wilde struggles to find new partners he can trust. Easier to keep it within the group. Good for them, whatever. He bundles up his towel and clothes and heads to the washroom. 

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, he really doesn’t. He’s not interested and it’s none of his business. But as he passes Wilde’s closed door, he hears a choked cry and a thud. None of his business, he knows. But his gut tells him there’s something else going on, and Wilde’s always encouraging him to trust his instincts. Zolf hesitates, but then pushes the door open. 

“Hey, Wilde,” he starts, aiming for ignorance. “Do you-” 

Wilde’s there alright. Unsurprisingly shirtless, with Montague straddling him. But it’s- something’s not right. Montague has a hand around Wilde’s throat, squeezing tight, dagger out in his hand. Wilde’s eyes are wide and they meet Zolf’s with a desperate plea, and Zolf doesn’t even think, just charges at Montague and knocks him off Wilde with his glaive. 

“What’s going on?” Zolf demands, but he’s knocked to the ground by a furious Montague, his glaive clattering out of reach. 

“Blue veins,” Wilde gasps out, struggling to keep Montague off him. Zolf’s back up on his feet again, about to reach for his glaive when he clocks what’s about to happen. Montague has Wilde pinned down again, dagger raised above his head. He’s aiming for Wilde’s face, and coming down hard. Zolf doesn’t have  _ time _ for his glaive, just lunges forwards, praying his momentum is enough to deter him. 

He reaches, he collides, but he’s too late. Montague has pulled down hard, pinning Wilde in such a way he can do nothing but turn his cheek in a futile attempt to dodge the strike. The dagger swipes at him, and Wilde lets out a curdling scream before choking off into silence. Zolf sees red, absolute red, as blood gushes down Wilde’s face. His hands are warm and sticky from it, but Montague is still moving under him. 

“Barnes! Carter!” He yells desperately. The thunder of footsteps on the stairs reaches the room and Zolf has the sickening realisation that the others could be infected too. They don’t know how it spreads, and Montague wasn’t even showing any damn veins. But he can’t think of that. He can’t throw Montague off and save Wilde alone. He has to trust his team. 

“What’s going on?” Carter demands, bursting into the room with Barnes hot on his heels. 

“He’s turned,” Zolf shouts as Montague finds his positioning and flings Zolf off of him. “Get him!” 

“No,” Montague begs, “it was Zolf! He was trying to kill Oscar, and now he’s trying to blame me. If you kill me, he’ll only kill you next!” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Zolf hisses, dragging himself over to Wilde. Barnes gets there first, cradling their handler’s face in his hands. Wilde’s unconscious, unable to testify, but he’s still breathing through the blood that flows freely down his face. 

“Shove over,” Zolf demands, taking Barnes’s place and holding Wilde close. He closes his eyes and reaches out for that power. He channels positive energy, feeling Wilde stir beneath him. 

“Did you kill him?” Wilde demands, eyes hard and focused, despite the obvious pain. “Montague- kill him!” 

Behind them, Montague swears. It happens quickly, and Zolf is looking at Wilde so he doesn’t see what happens, but he hears the scream and the gurgle as Barnes and Carter do their jobs and finish him off. Zolf waits, Wilde cradled in his lap, until Carter calls out the confirmation: Montague is dead. 

“Are you certain?” Zolf asks. He can’t risk channeling any more positive energy if there’s a chance it’d help Montague, but Wilde still needs help. 

“Certain,” Barnes confirms. Zolf nods, then reaches out and channels again, and again, until Wilde pushes Zolf away and scrambles to his feet. His face is still swollen, and there’s a bright scar forming from his hairline down to his chin. It rips at the corner of his mouth, pulling his lips open. Zolf winces, reaching forward, but Wilde turns away. 

“Strip him down,” he orders, voice stone cold. It doesn’t sound like him at all, clinical and lifeless in a way that Zolf has never associated with the man. “We need to see where the veins are.” 

They’d been careful. They thought they’d been so careful, but when they remove all of Montague’s clothing they find his skin painted in thick blue veins underneath where his underwear lay. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Wilde hisses. His voice drips with venom, and it’s not directed at Zolf at all, but it hurts to hear nonetheless. “Burn the body. I’ll contact a guard, but we all need to go back into quarantine immediately.” 

Barnes and Carter heft the lifeless body of who once was Montague up between them and shuffle out of the room. Wilde turns once again, his back to Zolf, shoulders stiff as a rod. Zolf watches him for a moment, before crossing the room and placing his hand on Wilde’s arm. Wilde flinches, hard, as if Zolf was fire. 

“We’re fucked,” he says, voice cracking. Zolf says nothing, and they stand there together, watching the wall. 

  
  


Quarantine is decidedly less fun now. The air is heavy with grief and betrayal. Even Carter has shut up for once, opting instead to draw patterns in the dust. Zolf settles down next to Wilde in his corner, drawing a pack of cards. 

“Yeah?” He offers, taking them out of the pack. Wilde stares through him, ignoring him completely. “Wilde.” 

Nothing. Barnes shakes his head at Zolf, but Zolf pointedly turns away. 

“Wilde. Oscar. I’ll deal you in. Rummy?” 

“Leave it, Zolf.” Wilde snaps. “I’m not going to sit here and play cards and pretend everything is fine! It’s not fine. They got Montague, and they could’ve gotten any one of us too! I can’t sit here and pretend it’s all okay.” 

“I’m not pretending it’s okay, Wilde,” Zolf snaps back. “It’s not okay. It’s awful, it’s horrible. But there’s nothing we can do right now but sit in this goddamn cage and wait for the week to be up. And while we do, there’s no harm in passing the time.” 

“No harm? I’m not playing with you, only to find out you're one of them, too. For all I know, The three of you are now infected, and I’m on my own. As far as I’m aware, you’re dead now, until you’re not.” And he stays down, but he shoves himself further back into the corner. Zolf lurches back as though struck, unable to look away from his crumpled friend. 

“Oscar,” he tries, but he’s met with silence. 

Fine. So be it. Zolf stands up and stalks across the small cell to the opposite corner. 

The week slogs by. Wilde says nothing to any of them, stripping off completely for inspections. It’s a new protocol, but after Montague, none of them argue. Barnes and Carter include him in their card games and conversations, but Zolf can’t stop watching Wilde, can’t stop the panic that rises in his throat, because what if Wilde goes next? Montague got to him first, had him alone before Zolf interrupted. None of them know how it spreads. 

So Zolf watches Wilde, and Wilde watches them all, his guard never dropping. 

Day 5 comes, the weight of it bearing down on them all. Zolf says nothing. None of them do, not until Carter pulls out a Campbell and hands it to Zolf. It’s a sign of- something. Carter’s the only one of the four of them who doesn’t enjoy the Campbells, but he gives it to Zolf and asks him to read. 

Zolf takes it, turns it over in his hands.  _ With the Passions of the Sun,  _ his favourite. It brings a tentative smile to his lips, and he opens it. 

“I won’t be as good with the voices as- I’m not great at reading aloud,” Zolf warns them, but he settles down comfortably and begins to read. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Barnes reach across and pat Carter on the shoulder. Zolf’s gaze flicks to Wilde, still in his corner. He’s drifting off to sleep as Zolf reads, but he no longer looks like the peaceful boy he used to. His face, newly marred, scrunches with tension. The bags under his eyes only ever seem to grow. But at least he’s sleeping, Zolf thinks, and continues to read to them all. 

They stay in the cell for an extra day. Wilde is so on edge, and although this is Zolf’s, Barnes’s, and Carter’s second consecutive quarantine, they go along with it. And they’re all clear. And Wilde turns to Zolf, fingers twitching at his side, tears in his eyes. 

“C’m’ere,” Zolf says, holding his arms out. Wilde sags completely, stooping down and pulling Zolf in close. He’s vaguely aware of Barnes ushering Carter out, but he doesn’t care much, he can’t care much when Wilde’s collapsed in his arms. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he rasps into Zolf’s ear, clutching him like a lifeline. Zolf nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You too. Me too.” 

When Wilde finally pulls away, Zolf takes a moment to look at that new scar. He’d been watching it all week, but that was from across a cold room. He’s closer now, reachable. Zolf lifts his hand up, tracing over it carefully. He can’t heal it and that feels like a personal failure on his part. Wilde’s eyes flutter shut and he swallows around a lump in his throat. 

“At least I know to trust myself,” he says. 

“Don’t worry,” Zolf assures him. “Plenty of guys find scars hot.”

“Is that so, Mr Smith?” Wilde flirts, his eyes opening again. He smirks, he tries to, his face twisting in an unfamiliar way. His words come out stilted, words working through an unfamiliar mouth, but this is more Wilde than Zolf has seen in eight days. 

“I ain’t meaning me,” he laughs, patting Wilde’s arm twice before leading them out of the cellar and up into the inn. “But I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

* * *

Zolf’s not really sleeping when Wilde nudges the door to his room open. He doesn’t know the exact time, but it feels like halfway between midnight and dawn. He rolls over, silently letting Wilde know he’s still up. Taking this movement as the invitation it is, Wilde slips into Zolf’s room and carefully closes the door behind him. It clicks shut, followed by the muffled sounds of his soft footsteps as he makes his way over to Zolf, expertly avoiding the creaky floorboards. 

“You’ll never guess what sort of an evening I’ve just had,” Wilde whispers into the night. Zolf pulls himself up into a seated position, watching Wilde join him. Wilde can’t see him, he knows, but he still turns his head and accurately guesses where Zolf’s face is. A breath of cold air folds into the bed as Wilde pulls the covers back, but it only lasts a moment before it’s replaced with Wilde’s warmth. 

“Wild and raucous? Entirely your taste but not at all mine?” Zolf guesses. He reaches over to his bedside table and lights his lantern so Wilde can see. The room glows orange and warm, Wilde’s face flickering with the colour. He smirks in a way he hasn’t quite relearned, the scar that covers half his face still unfamiliar. He looks happy, though, light in a way he hasn’t seemed since the incident. Zolf feels himself reluctantly smiling in response to it. 

“I want you to know, Zolf,” Wilde grins, pulling himself further under the covers as he speaks. “That Wilde still has it.” 

Zolf scoffs at that. It’s the way he addresses himself in third person, it’s the way he’s so smug about it, it’s the way he crawls into Zolf’s bed to tell him of his latest conquests. He’s a menace, that man, and Zolf delights in it. 

“Some poor bugger take pity on you then?” Zolf asks. He knows if he had said that weeks ago, it would’ve hit too close to home. But the flush in Wilde’s cheeks and his giddy energy as he twirls his feet under the blankets assure Zolf that he’s not overstepping here, that it’s a comment Zolf is allowed to make. 

“Not just one,” Wilde gushes. “I even turned someone down.” 

That gets Zolf’s attention. It’s not that Wilde’s easy- he’s just incredibly enthusiastic. Zolf hasn’t known him to turn many people down and he knows he’s been shy since the scar. 

“Oh, don’t be so surprised. I do have standards, you know,” Wilde says to the expression on Zolf’s face. 

“Bertie,” Zolf points out, and Wilde frowns in a way that means he’s laughing. 

“It was Carter.” 

“ _ Carter _ ?” Zolf laughs, forgetting for a moment that it’s the middle of the night, and the man himself is quite possibly down the hall. 

“The one I turned down,” Wilde clarifies. “I can tell you now, that man cannot take a hint.” 

“I’m going to give him so much shit,” Zolf says gleefully. “You have just made my night.” 

Wilde’s still smiling, looking comfortable wrapped up in Zolf’s blankets. His eyes are closed and Zolf thinks idly back to when they first met. Wilde was so much younger then, a completely different person than the man he is now. Zolf feels his throat tighten at the memory. He’d hated him back then, but grief for who Wilde was- carefree and charming, happy and trusting- washes over him. They’ve both passed a point of no return, and while he wouldn’t trade where they’re at now for anything, Zolf can’t help the sadness of an easier life missed. 

“I possibly could’ve been nicer about it,” Wilde admits, his eyes still closed. He looks like he’s settled in for the night so Zolf leans over and blows out his lantern. Wilde likes to sleep in the pitch dark, which Zolf is okay with. His dark vision means it makes little difference to him, he’s still able to read if he’s not ready for sleep himself. He stays sitting up, reaching for a Campbell from the stack on his bedside table. He’s not able to tell the colours of the spines without a source of light, but he knows the order and he knows which one he wants.  _ The Heart Beats Faster-  _ not Zolf’s favourite, but it feels fitting for tonight and it’s been a while since he last read it. 

“Heh,” Zolf chuckles, readjusting himself so he can prop up the book and read without hurting his back. “The man’s an arse.” 

“And not a hot one at that,” Wilde agrees. His voice is softer now, less fire and excitement, more contentment and drowsy. Zolf thumbs the tattered pages of his novel and opens it, clearing his throat before reading it aloud. It’s the quickest way to get Wilde to fall asleep, and although he usually sleeps alright after a screw, if Zolf can help then he will. 

“ _Hayley Barrington did not not notice the pummel of the horse's hooves until they were nearly upon her, for her attention was fixed solely on the book in her hands and not at all on the world surrounding her_ ,” Zolf begins, one eye on the page, the other watching Wilde as he drifts off. 

Zolf’s thought about it. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but he knows he likes it when Wilde comes home to him. He’s not jealous of Wilde’s one night stands and fleeting relationships, genuinely. He feels like he should be, but he can’t find it in him to care about that. They’re not together- not like that- but he can’t find the shape they form. He doesn’t want to sleep with Wilde himself, doesn’t even want to kiss him. But the thought of leaving him, of their lives diverging and following separate paths leaves his heart fluttering uncomfortably in his throat, his eyes heavy and stinging. It’s unfamiliar and nothing he’s heard of, but it exists so easily. 

Here’s Oscar Wilde, sleeping in Zolf’s bed, his easy breathing enough to make Zolf himself feel drowsy. Here’s a boy that knows which strings to pull to rile Zolf up within moments, but knows when to drop it, too. Here’s a man that Zolf would follow anywhere, a man he knows would do the same for him. 

There’s an unspoken promise between them, unmade vows devoting them to each other. Zolf isn’t sure exactly what they are, but he knows he will keep them til the day he dies. 

* * *

Something’s happened. Zolf doesn’t know what it is, but Wilde’s been off all afternoon. He hasn’t even left his office, but Zolf can feel his anticipation through the walls. It’s driving him insane. He focuses, instead, on cooking. He makes quiches and stews and curries and pastries until the smells of the kitchen threaten to overwhelm him. 

Wilde’s still in his office, his silence echoing down the hallways. Carter doesn’t seem to notice, busying himself with being a menace in the kitchen. He takes a bite of everything, stepping on Zolf’s toes in the process. 

“Fine!” Zolf all but shouts as Carter reaches over him to dip his finger in the broth simmering on the stovetop. “Fine, you win. Burn your damn hand and eat my damn food. See if I care! I don’t care. I’m going.” 

Zolf turns with a huff and storms out of his kitchen, but not before he sees the look of satisfaction on Carter’s face. That throws him for a moment. He feels played, like Carter was only getting in his way to prompt him to leave the kitchen. Stupid. Zolf shrugs it off and goes to find Wilde. 

“Oh!” Wilde says, looking up from his papers when Zolf walks in. “Zolf.” 

“Spit it out, then,” Zolf demands. He closes the door before Wilde tells him to, and makes his way to his stool. Wilde runs a hand through his hair and lets out a deep sigh. He smells of coffee and paper. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Wilde begins slowly. Zolf cuts him off with a dramatic eye roll. 

“That’s kind of my  _ job _ ,” Zolf points out. “That’s what I do.” 

“Fine! Fine. Don’t set your expectations too high. Is that better for you?” Wilde tries. Zolf nods. He wants to hear the hope-worthy news. 

“Yes, fine, whatever. What do you know?” 

Wilde tugs at his right middle finger, a gesture Zolf has come to associate with anxieties. “It’s… it’s Hamid. And Azu.” 

“Hamid?” Zolf repeats. “And Azu. But not Sasha.” 

Wilde says nothing, just shakes his head. 

“Well?” Zolf prompts. “What about Hamid and Azu?” 

“They’ve come back,” Wilde says, and Zolf stops listening. 

He’s thought of this moment for months. He’s imagined it in a million different ways, both good and bad. But here he is now, told that actually they have a shot. Hamid has done what no one does, he’s come back from Rome. Wilde’s talking again with a stupid expression on his stupid face, and Zolf stands up and walks out. 

  
  
  


“They could be infected,” Wilde warns him, as if Zolf was a child who couldn’t consider the bigger picture himself. 

“Curie seemed to think they were fine,” Zolf counters. Wilde sighs. 

“They’ve been in Rome, Zolf. Anything can happen in Rome.” 

“They entered Rome before the disease, and they’ve been teleported out. The risk is low!” 

“But there’s still a risk! You’ve already grieved for him, Zolf. It’ll be easier to keep it that way for one more week. If it really is him, then you can celebrate when he’s been cleared. If it’s not, then you’ll save yourself from it a second time.” Wilde says, tries to reason, but Zolf hasn’t made it this far by focusing on the negatives and refusing anything that could be good. 

“Get a grip, Wilde. Hamid is coming back. You can’t stop me from  _ hoping  _ he’s okay.” 

Zolf storms out, slamming the door behind him. 

  
  
  


Seeing Hamid again feels good. Better than any scenario Zolf had played over in his head, despite the caution, despite their restrictions, despite the Sasha-shaped absence. He’s right when he tells Zolf he’s grown up a lot since they were last together, and Zolf feels the warmth of pride welling up in his chest. 

His friend, Azu, seems good for him. She clearly cares deeply about him and is certainly a better influence on him than Bertie. Zolf wants to befriend her, but she’s wary of him- understandably- and he doesn’t want to crowd her. Being her captor is bad enough. Instead, he offers her a Campbell. It’s a bridge from his end, a sign that he hopes they’ll be friends by the end of this. He doesn’t know if she understands that, but she takes the book and loves it, and in doing so reaches out to meet him with her own foundations.

* * *

They meet Cel, they find Shoin, they help the kobolds, they save the weather. It’s rewarding work, but it only scratches that itch. Zolf needs to keep going, to keep moving. Wilde needs to, too, Zolf can feel his energy like an elemental, alive and thrumming through the air. They move forwards, together, as a group. 

* * *

Zolf finds a harmony with Azu he hadn’t realised he was missing. She’s kind. Purely and genuinely kind in a way that is rare in this new world. When met with cautious glances in Earhart’s building she doesn’t think twice before reassuring them and offering what she has. 

“Do you want any money?” She asks, Earhart bundled in her arms. Zolf looks up at her, but her focus is still on the people. They hesitate before answering, unsure if it’s a trick question. It’s hard to trust anyone these days, especially large strangers, but Azu radiates warmth in a way that’s hard to ignore. 

“Yes please,” one of them says, their voice shy but desperate. 

“Alright,” Azu says, and she hands out her gold. It doesn’t seem to cross her mind, the profundity of her actions, as she moves between the outstretched hands and offers what she can. There’s stammering and there’s crying, and there’s so much hope in the air that Zolf can feel it stir within him. Azu inspires him, so he spreads his arms wide and embraces it all. 

_ Hope _ , he thinks, he feels, and he channels positive energy. He feels himself strengthen and heal with it too, but the whole atmosphere shifts for the better.

“Zolf,” Azu whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “We should- can we-” 

“Yeah,” Zolf says back, and the two of them move on. Zolf channels his energy again, as they move through the building. He knows it’s him doing it, but he’s not sure he would’ve thought to if Azu hadn’t made that first move. It feels good, having someone there to prompt him to be better. 

“She can have my room,” Zolf says when they get back to where they’re staying. He knows Wilde will let him bunk with him if he needs it. Azu lays her down gently on Zolf’s bed and draws up a chair. 

“I’ll get her some food,” Zolf says, feeling uncomfortable and helpless now that she’s asleep. They’ve done all they can for her for now, so he heads to the door. 

“Alright,” Azu says, pulling a blanket over Earhart’s scrawny frame, and Zolf pauses. 

“Oh!” He says, and reaches into his bag. He’s got a couple with him at all times, but the first one he finds is  _ The Heart Beats Faster _ so he hands it over with a sly wink. It’s saucy and thrilling and it’s one Azu hasn’t read yet. She takes it with a delighted smile, immediately opening it up. Zolf nods to her and leaves quietly, clicking the door shut with care.

It’s nice to do good. It’s nice to put something out that is pure in its essence without causing any harm. 

He thinks of Azu as he wanders the streets, channeling positive energy. He thinks of Hamid making it out of Rome, and he thinks of Wilde who still hasn’t given up. He thinks of Cel and their enthusiasm, how they keep trying and keep caring. He lets his hope flow through him and out into the city. 

He’s got this. 

* * *

The airship is familiar to Zolf, a reminder of home at sea. He’s part of a crew again, in charge of a ship. He may not be captain, but he knows he has the loyalty of his team and the ship feels like his anyway. It thrums with life, with his elementals, and it almost feels as much a part of him as his new legs. 

It’s not just him, either. Wilde’s embracing their new accommodation with an energy Zolf hadn’t expected. He’s getting in Earhart’s way on the rare occasion she leaves her quarters and it’s almost as if he feeds off being a menace.

“You know what I really think Earhart needs,” he says one afternoon, joining Zolf at the helm. 

“No, and I don’t really care to,” Zolf mutters back. 

“Boo,” Wilde says. He’s leaning back, elbows propped against the railing of the ship. “You’re no fun. Hamid would indulge me.” 

“Well go find Hamid then!” Zolf says, swatting him away. 

“Fine,” Wilde says. “I will.” 

The bow bar is a stroke of genius on Wilde’s part. He’s fizzing as he sets it up, gathering materials up from around the ship. Zolf sees an opportunity here, another brightside in the whole situation. 

“Earhart,” he calls, rapping on her door before letting himself in. He finds her hunched over on her desk, working on something he can’t quite make out. It’s hard to get a read on her while she’s in Tadyka’s body, but she seems in a good enough mood. “Wilde’s organising some sort of party for tonight.” 

“Interesting,” she mutters, looking up at him. She tilts her head slightly, gesturing for him to go on. 

“Yeah. Meerk, Natun and Friedrich are sorting out music, I think. Wilde’s about to organise the lighting.” 

Earhart leans back in her seat and smirks slightly at Zolf. “Funny you should say that, actually. Because I realised I need all our spare candles and lanterns for, um, inspection” she says, and falters off slightly. Zolf grins. 

“Oh, really?” He says, knowing exactly what she’s getting at. “I guess I’d better gather them up and bring them to you, then.” 

Earhart nods to him, looking pleased with herself. “You do that, Mr Smith. Keep me updated.” 

“Aye, Captain,” Zolf says, and leaves her to her work. 

He goes about the ship, finding the spare lanterns and bringing them down to Earhart’s cabin. Wilde hasn’t quite noticed, briefly occupied with Natun. They’re singing together, something Wilde rarely does since losing the magic that used to accompany his voice, and Zolf finds himself lingering to listen in. 

“Zolf,” Wilde calls when he spots him. “Help me find the lanterns? They weren’t in the hold.” 

“Actually,” Zolf says, revelling in stirring the pot, “I think Earhart has them at the moment. Something about taking stock, checking they’re all functional.” 

Wilde’s face drops and he scowls, but it’s without any real heat or malice. “Of course she has,” he grumbles to himself. “I’ll go sort that out.” 

It all comes together really nicely, in the end. Even Earhart seems happier, coming out of her office in a ridiculous outfit and sticking to water while everyone else drinks. Zolf hadn’t considered it, but he meets Azu’s eye from across the bar and nods at their captain. She returns his nod with an understanding smile. Together, they keep an eye on her. 

It turns out they didn’t really need to, as Earhart steers herself clear of the alcohol and stays sober. Zolf’s glowing with a warm pride, but he says nothing. He doesn’t trust himself not to make it too awkward. 

“Gives them something nicer to focus on than being in the wrong body,” Wilde says to Zolf as the evening calms down. Zolf smiles at him, patting his bicep. 

“You did good, Wilde.” 

“I always do, Zolf. I always do,” he says mildly, and Zolf scoffs at him. But he's softened around the edges, and Zolf knows the validation is important to him. 

Wilde leans forwards on the floor, knees slightly raised in front of him, and drapes his torso over his legs. He’s basically folded in half, his back open to the sky. Zolf places his hand between his shoulder blades, feels Wilde’s body heat warm through his shirt. A steady reminder of life and purpose. 

“We’ll find another Borealis, change everyone back into their original bodies. We’ll make it to Svalbard and figure this goddamn mystery out,” Zolf promises.

“And then?” Wilde asks, his eyes drifting shut. Zolf’s thumb rubs back and forward over Wilde’s shoulder, squeezing tight muscles. 

“I think I’ll want to go back to Britain. North. Maybe Scotland.” 

“We could go back to Ireland,” Wilde suggests. Zolf’s thumb stutters in its movement, but then he keeps going. 

“Together?” He asks, like he’s never dared to before. 

“Of course,” Wilde says, his eyes opening again. He meets Zolf’s gaze head on, unflinching and present. “I’ll come with you anywhere, Zolf.” 

“Good,” Zolf says, swallowing the lump in his throat. His relief is palpable, thick in his bloodstream. “Good.” 

* * *

Wilde dies. Wilde comes back. Zolf doesn’t dare consider what could’ve happened if Wilde had chosen to stay dead. He doesn’t dwell on it. He’s a cleric of hope, not of grief. He’s focusing on the bright side. 

* * *

For all that he’s changed and for all that he’s grown, Zolf’s connection to the water still holds strong. It’s different, here, though. The lake is calm and smooth. Predictable. It’s not the ocean and it’s not Poseidon. It feels like an entirely new being, but it still calms Zolf down when he needs it. 

It’s cold, but it’s crisp and it’s clear and it welcomes Zolf in with open arms. He’s taken to swimming in the mornings, sailing on the windier days, evening fishing sometimes. There are smooth flat rocks that line the lakebed here, and they range from the size of his fingernails to the size of his outstretched hand. Some are too heavy and some are too light, but most of them skim across the lake when he flicks them right, and it brings a calmness to Zolf that he only ever finds in his meditation. 

It’s… nice. It’s quiet and peaceful and there’s something right about watching the stones disappear when he skims them, the ripples bleeding out into the rest of the water until the surface is flat and calm again. Zolf shrugs off his coat, folding it up and placing it on the shore before stepping out of his boots and setting them on top. It’s taken practise and skill but he’s mastered the art of walking his metal legs across the uneven rocks of the shore. He’s now quick and efficient, wading into the waters without much concentration. It’s cold against his thighs when it first meets his skin through his trousers, but he grows used to it within minutes. 

Zolf stands there, eyes drifting between open and closed as he watches a pair of swallows swoop after midges and listens to the gentle lap on the water on the shore. 

“Everything okay?” A voice calls. The cloud cover is thick and it’s hard to tell where the sun is, but Zolf thinks it hasn’t moved much since he’s been down at the beach. Maybe half an hour. One hour tops. 

“Aye,” he says, not turning to face Wilde. He hears the fumble of shoes being removed, a soft curse as footing is lost. He rolls his eyes to himself. 

“Ooh! Ah!” Wilde whispers to himself as he picks his way over the stones to Zolf’s side. He lets out a soft hiss at what Zolf can only assume is his low tolerance for the cold water. 

“You alright there?” Zolf asks, turning to him when Wilde reaches his side. Wilde nods, brushing his hair behind his ear. 

“Peachy,” he says. “House was quiet. Besides, I finished with my writing for a while.” 

“How’s it coming along?” Zolf asks, bending down to pick out a rock. He finds a smooth flat one, perfectly round. The weight of it feels nice in his hand. Comforting and familiar. He and Feryn used to do this all the time as children. They’d get into fits trying to out-skim each other’s stones, sometimes going for skips, sometimes for distance. Zolf frowns slightly. 

“Oh, you know,” Wilde sighs. “Hit a wall. But I’ve made good progress up until now. I think I just need a change of scenery. Breath of fresh air.” 

Zolf’s stone skips out in front of them, thirteen even jumps before disappearing below the surface for good. Wilde whistles. 

“If you want me to have a look, you know I’d be happy to,” Zolf offers, not for the first time. Wilde smiles at him. 

“I’m not sure I write enough romance for your tastes,” he teases. Zolf takes a couple of steps away and skips another stone, this time towards Wilde. It dances dangerously close to hitting him, but Zolf is well-practised and it fires between Wilde’s parted legs. 

“I do read other things, you know,” Zolf huffs. Wilde does know. Wilde doesn’t care. Zolf will always circle back to a Campbell and Wilde will always circle back to teasing him.

“Don’t you worry; your secret is safe with me,” Wilde promises, as if it was a secret, as if Zolf didn’t know he could trust him. Zolf doesn’t say anything to that, opting instead to pluck another stone out of the water and send it out across the empty lake. This one hits sixteen skims, and Wilde lets out another low whistle. 

“You have a go?” Zolf suggests, finding a flat disk of a stone and offering it out to Wilde. They haven’t done this together in years, and he knows Wilde is hesitant when he’s unsure if he’ll be an expert. He doesn’t like to be shown up, Zolf knows.

Wilde hesitates, then takes the stone from Zolf’s outstretched hand. He takes his time, flipping it over again and again, running those thin fingers over its smooth surface. 

“It’s in the flick of the wrist,” Zolf says, again. He motions with his own rock, swinging his arm and snapping his hand up at the last moment, sending it flying out over the glass-calm lake. Wilde counts each skip, his voice a resounding melody. Zolf gets eight skips. Not great, but not bad either. He turns to watch Wilde, still humming to himself as he copies Zolf’s motions and sends his own stone skimming out far. He gets nine skips, beating Zolf’s by one. 

“Hey!” Zolf cries out, his delight a tangible thing. He knows his face has split with his grin, but that’s a massive improvement on Wilde’s old thunks. “Not bad, Wilde. Not bad.” 

Wilde beams back at him, a competitive glint in his eyes. “Better than you,” he goads, holding his hand out for another stone. Zolf bends over, fishing another two stones out from the lake bed. He checks them briefly, handing Wilde the flatter one. 

“Go again?” He says. Wilde shakes his head. 

“You first.”

Zolf looks at him, then back out across the lake. In one well practised sweeping motion he flings the stone out, the two of them counting each skip together. This time, he gets seventeen. 

“ _ Not bad, a decent score. Not so bad but I can do more _ ,” Wilde sings, jovial and light. Zolf laughs at him, rolling his eyes. It’s good to see him this happy again, this light and full of life. He skips his own stone, this time getting eighteen. One-upping Zolf once again. Zolf frowns slightly, but quickly schools his face into a more neutral expression. He doesn’t want his competitive side to get in the way of this afternoon. Wilde turns to face him, a smug grin on his face. Zolf ignores him, opting instead to dunk his head under the water, picking them out two more stones. He doesn’t check them over this time, passing Wilde one at random. He clearly doesn’t need the advantage. 

“Together?” He offers, turning on his side to get his angle right. Optimising his shot, and all that. Wilde nods and mimics his position. 

“Three, two, one, and go!” Wilde calls, his voice filling the air and carrying out around the bay. He’s too goddamn happy with himself, that smile spreading further as Zolf’s stone sinks after thirteen skips while Wilde’s carries on for two more. Zolf scowls, diving down for another pair of stones. He doesn’t need to go completely under to pick them out, but he’s always liked being underwater, and it’s a good excuse not to look at that damn expression on Wilde’s face. He takes longer than he needs to, finding himself a lovely flat stone, and bulkier heavier one for Wilde. 

“Here ya go,” he grumbles, dumping the stone heavily in Wilde’s outstretched hand when he resurfaces. Wilde’s eyes sparkle with glee but he doesn’t say anything to further rile Zolf up, just hums to himself, throwing the stone in the air and catching it again while Zolf composes himself. 

“You first this time,” Zolf says, demands. Wilde hesitates, ever so slightly, but doesn’t stop his annoying humming. Zolf watches him carefully, scrutinising his technique. Wilde doesn’t really notice, just lines himself up and sends his stone out wide. His arm bounces too much, and his wrist doesn’t snap hard enough, but Wilde sings out his score as his stone goes, landing on a nineteen. Ridiculously high for such a sloppy attempt. Zolf narrows his eyes. Straightens his back. Lines up his shot and flings his stone. It skips only eight times before sinking, but Zolf has a theory and he can’t think properly for all of Wilde’s noise. 

He doesn’t dunk himself this time, just reaches down and scoops out another pair of stones. Wilde takes his from Zolf, too caught up in his own little parade to look at Zolf properly. 

“On the count of three,” Zolf says, then counts them in. Wilde fires his out on three, but Zolf hesitates just long enough to calculate his path. He flings his own stone out, sending it crashing into Wilde’s path. Instead of a crack of collision and splash as they sink, the two stones simply pass through one another, Wilde’s staying skipping for three more skips than Zolf’s. 

“You bloody bard,” Zolf exclaims, his theory proved right. Wilde’s smile falters and he has the audacity to act surprised. “You goddamn smug bastard! You thought I wouldn’t notice your stupid illusions?” 

“Aw, Zolf,” Wilde begins, but Zolf steamrolls over him. 

“You’re no fun, Wilde. Can’t stand the thought of losing so you gotta cheat?” And maybe Zolf isn’t actually angry, but this is how they work, and Wilde’s still glowing, switching from using magic to sparring with Zolf like he’s been given two beautiful gifts. Zolf swings his arm wide and sprays Wilde with a wave of water, mussing up that oh-so-perfect hair. 

“Now, now, Zolf, all’s fair in love and-” But Zolf gets him again, this time dunking his head under the surface of the lake. Wilde splutters as he resurfaces, breathless from surprise, breathless from laughter. 

“Who knew you’d be such a sore loser?” He teases, ducking back under the water as Zolf lunges for him. 

“Me? Sore loser?  _ You’re _ the one who didn't even play! You’re a goddamn cheat, Oscar!”

Wilde just laughs, filling the lake with a new sort of music. 

Zolf’s cold when they do eventually get out, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s been a long time since the cold ever has. Wilde’s still soft, though, and likes to stay warm when he can. He prestidigitates himself dry, the same snap of his fingers he used way back in Paris. Zolf runs his hands roughly through his own hair, droplets of water scattering out like a dog. Without a word, Wilde leans down and scoops up a towel he brought down with him, handing it to Zolf. He takes it, wrapping it over his shoulders. He’s not bothered either way, but he knows Wilde wouldn’t want him catching a cold despite his healing abilities. (And besides, it’s nice to be fussed over every now and then.)

* * *

  
  
Wilde presents him with a ring. It’s a quiet evening, the two of them at home with a bottle of wine, a night like any other. 

“I remember,” Wilde says slowly from where he sits perched on the bench. Zolf has told him countless times to pull up a chair if he doesn’t want to stand, but nothing he says seems to stop Wilde from hopping onto the counters. 

“What do you remember?” He asks, chopping up a couple of carrots. 

“You promised me a holiday,” Wilde says. Zolf falters in his actions and turns to face Wilde. 

“You said you didn’t remember that conversation,” Zolf says accusingly, pointing his knife at Wilde. 

“I didn’t! It’s just slowly been coming back to me.” 

“So you’ll remember being a complete bastard, then?” Zolf says lightly, turning back to his vegetables. Wilde laughs. 

“That happens often enough, my dear Zolf. Couldn’t forget it if I tried.” 

“Alright, then,” Zolf says. He tips the carrots from the chopping board into the stew, and picks out a courgette. “Where do you wanna go?” 

Wilde hums to himself and reaches his hands into his pockets. Zolf spies his emptying wine glass and tops it up, before adding to his own glass too. 

“As long as it’s us, I don’t really care,” Wilde admits. “But I think it’s a good time for a break.” 

He’s right. It’s nearly been a year now since they left Hamid, Azu, Cel, and the others. They still see them, of course, but Zolf was ready to retire, and Wilde had no complaints. Zolf’s tired. He’s ready for his epilogue. 

"I have something I want to give you,” Wilde says abruptly, one hand sweeping out of his pocket to brush his hair aside. Zolf adds the courgettes to the pot and turns to look at him. 

His hair is long again, and Zolf has to admit he prefers it this way. He’s still too skinny for Zolf’s liking, but Zolf’s working on that. That big scar across his face has gone, and although he got it as a result of a bad experience, it hurt Zolf more when he lost it. Zolf misses it, almost. 

“Pay up, then,” Zolf says. Wilde looks away fleetingly, and Zolf realises he’s nervous. Shy. 

“You know I never want to marry,” Wilde says, and Zolf nods along. “But I- I don’t want to leave you, either.”

He brings his right hand from his coat pocket and pulls with it a small black box. 

“Oscar Wilde,” Zolf whispers conspiringly. “Are you proposing to me?”

“No!” Wilde says hurriedly. “I _just_ said that I never want to marry!” Zolf laughs at him, letting him know he’s only teasing. 

“But,” Zolf prompts. Wilde nods his head, twisting the box over in his hands. 

“But this made me think of you.” And he holds the box out, flat in his palm. Zolf takes it. 

There’s a ring on a chain. It’s small and simple, a dark matte silver that doesn’t catch the light, but instead seems to hold it close. Zolf picks it out tenderly, twisting it between his fingers as he examines it. It wasn’t evident at first, but now that he looks closer he can see a constellation etched into it. His eyes snap up and meet Wilde’s, and he can’t help the smirk he feels his face forming. 

“Like I’m your Northern Star?” He teases, just for the flush of colour to grace Wilde’s cheeks. 

“I won’t deny it,” Wilde admits. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” 

“You’re incredibly romantic for someone who doesn’t feel it,” Zolf says, slipping the chain around his neck. The ring falls down, slotting into place low on his chest. It feels at home. “You’d make a lovely husband.” 

“I don’t want a husband,” Wilde objects. “I just want this. Whatever it is.” 

Zolf smiles at him, a new warmth spreading from head to toe. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too, Wilde. Me too.” 

“So that’s a yes, then?” Wilde asks, nodding towards where Zolf’s ring lays. 

“What’s the question?” Zolf asks. Placing the lid on the pot to keep their dinner simmering. Wilde falters slightly at that, because he hasn’t actually asked a question. There isn’t really a question to ask. But Zolf knows that, and Zolf agrees. His answer is yes anyway. 

“Of course it’s a yes,” he says, reaching out and patting Wilde’s hand. “It’ll always be a yes.” 

And Wilde smiles at him, eyes bright and teeth bare. Zolf smiles back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know if you enjoyed it, and if you haven't heard the song, I beg you to give it a listen!
> 
> knifemartin on the ol' tumblr


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